Prompt: Leah’s Comfort

USE YOUR SENSES!
Imagine that an important character you are writing about or plan to write about is imagining their absolute most favorite place in the whole world.
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When asked, which isn’t often, I admit that while I am spiritual, I am not religious. The great irony is that when I feel overwhelmed or agitated, no matter which city or town I’m in, I search for the familiar tall spires or that brilliant rosette for sanctuary.

I find great comfort in the architecture, knowing in advance before I enter that there will be a nave filled with pews, an altar at the transept, a lectern, and the walls lined by the stations of the cross. Often, a pale light will emanate from heavy wrought-iron chandeliers hung high to imitate the candlelight of the past. Sometimes there is an arcade to each side of the nave with small chapels dedicated to one saint or another. Other times, there is but the one room.

From time to time I’ll look up from where I’m kneeling and lose myself in the intricate costumes worn by the heroes and heroines of the bible with their halos glowing in a perfect azure sky. I’m often surprised by the patterns made on stone walls when sunlight hits the stained windows, the glass depictions of famous stories transformed into a symphony of fractured color.

When I’m feeling particularly distressed, I’ll search for a Latin mass. Sitting on that hard bench, my fingertip slowly tracing the scarred wood, I’ll close my eyes and focus on the sonorous drone of the readings. Though I do not understand the words, for that blessed hour, I know exactly what is expected of me. Stand, sit, kneel and repeat. Conclude all prayers with Amen. Occasionally say an Hallelluah. The communion wafer is always a perfect circle placed on the tongue; thin, crisp and tasteless. Whether I’m in New York, Chicago, Amsterdam or Paris, there are no surprises.

One day, in Portugal, I stepped into a dark interior, lit by melting red candles in front of depressions that housed statues. A sharp metallic click from the direction of the choir announced the incense before I caught the first whiff. The place reminded me of my grandmother’s house – heavy and sweet, the air thick with perfume and mildew. I thought back to a midnight Christmas mass, where as a girl, cranky and tired, I kept hopping up from my hard seat and turning to look behind me. My grandmother pinched my arm and whispered that though I could not see him, the devil was standing there, and each time I looked back, he made a mark beside my name in an enormous black book.

Though these memories sometimes interrupt my comfort, it is the sameness that soothes my soul, from the hanging crucifix to the heft of the missile to the confessionals. This predictability irons out the wrinkles of my everyday life.

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